The Romantic Erotic Novel

Chapter 17 – Part 3, A Gutter Whore

This is chapter 17, part 3 of the Pleasing María novel. If you are under 18 years of age, or are offended by explicit descriptions of sexual activity or violence, or by strong language, please exit this site immediately. To view the Table of Contents of the novel click here. To go directly to the first chapter, click here. To read the latest novel post, click here. This is a rough second draft.

Chapter 17 – Part 3, A Gutter Whore

I arrived back in Guanajuato determined to take my revenge on the slut that had betrayed me. Knowing she had given PP our wedding rings and had married him in a Mayan ritual made me crazy beyond reason. I now saw just what kind of woman María was – she had used her great beauty to seduce me, to induce me to maintain her so she could indulge her sick sexual appetites for other men. She was beyond nymphomania, ready to fuck any man, even marry them, to satisfy her sexual compulsions.

I’d already decided to dump María, but secretly, to get revenge first. Her beauty wouldn’t save her now.

PerfectPenis said he would turn María into a cheap, trashy whore, and I would too. I wanted revenge for what she said about me, how she had betrayed me. I wanted every man in Guanajuato to fuck her, without stop, to fuck her to death. I would leave her, but not before I whored her down so low no decent man would ever touch her again. This must be what love is: destroying the person that has betrayed you.

* * *

I searched all the video porn shops until I found the complete video that featured María. The wrapper showed Isabel Hernández, full frontal, vulva open to the world. She was beautiful, even the grainy image took my breath away. The Photog had sold the footage many years after the filming. I bought the video and asked if he had more – no, it was out of print, he had sold dozens of copies, and this was his store demo. I wondered how many perverts had watched Isabel, pumping their penises raw, grunting and squirting in the pain of knowing they could never have such a woman, the woman I slept with every night. I was pleased they were tormented.

In the porn video, she did about everything two (and three) men could do to a woman. The video featured lots of ejaculations spraying on her face and hair, and finished with a triple penetration, mouth, vagina and anus. She seemed to enjoy it all except the finale. The penis throat-fucking her was the Photog, wearing only an upper-face mask. At least, he had a small penis. I searched the Internet and found references to Isabel Hernández in private collections, and a few short video clips on the porn video sites. She had made at least one other porn flick with the Photog.

* * *

PP kept his word. I had swallowed his semen and become his property, and he dropped all contact with María. The slut told me she received a short, cryptic message from PP a few weeks back and PP hadn’t contacted her since. She obsessed about losing him and had moved on to other men to compensate. That’s too bad, PP might-as-well have stayed in the group-fuck of the whore.

I wasn’t impotent with her, quite the contrary, I had those rock-hard erections born of rage and contempt, and I fucked her frequently, every time I obsessed about her betrayal. She knew I had changed, she didn’t know why but she loved brute sex and she fucked me back with the rage of a spurned woman.

I called it ‘hor-fucking’, not for ‘whore’ but for ‘hormones’ (or maybe ‘horror’), the brute, primal biological imperative to win. We had no problem reaching climax as we pounded at each other, the climax of one provoked the climax of the other, if just not to be bested.

So we hor-fucked each other, not with love nor cariño, not to give the other the slightest pleasure, but only for our own separate, selfish pleasure. I didn’t care if she climaxed, it was raw sex, revenge-fucking, fucking to hurt.

In spite of my frequent hor-fuckings of María, I was frustrated, wanting to feel PP’s penis driving into my throat, wanting to feel his boot smashing my testicles. And as I had agreed with him, I was impotent with all other women – the sight of a fashionably exposed breast or leg flooded my mind with images of PP’s penis. Hor-fucking my slut caused the castration obsession to surge within me. My testicles ached for that relief. Away from the slut, I was barely able to stimulate myself into an erection. But I was highly charged sexually, and to relieve the tension, I found relief in pain, experimenting with different techniques to squeeze my testicles without causing major damage – that privilege was reserved for PerfectPenis.

Then I thought of the León politician’s bitch, and I contacted him. The bitch had been cut adrift by the politician when he lost his re-election. The bitch was more than pleased to be abused and tormented. I choked him with my penis and ground his genitals under my shoes until he, like me, begged for castration. I only stopped when I realized he was me. And I had no right to destroy his testicles, he wasn’t my property.

* * *

I remembered the slut wearing our honeymoon panties in the videos and I examined the ‘sealed’ package of our honeymoon present to ourselves. It was still a fat package, but the seal had been carefully opened and resealed. I opened it. Only one of the ten panties remained, the others replaced with scraps of old cloth. I resealed the package, put it back in its special place and went to brutally hor-fuck the slut again.

I remembered the day María had been dumped by Mr. U&P, sitting alone crying in a café, teenage boys feeling her up, with nowhere to go. I regretted saving her then, and decided that would be an appropriate revenge for her. I would make her a public whore again. I decided to test out my theory about her vanity with some male acquaintances, some Americans and Mexicans I knew were attracted to her. I only told them she was looking for a lover, and if they flattered her, told her how young and beautiful and sexy she was, they would have a good chance to seduce her. They thought I was crazy, but they were excited.

I told the whore I missed the excitement of cleaning semen from her vulva. She agreed, said that ritual was my best sex technique, and she missed it too.

A couple of days later, the whore went to ‘visit a friend’ wearing lace panties. When she returned later, she was sans panties. She pulled my mouth into her vulva, and I stayed there until she jerked and bucked into exhaustion. Then I received a visit from one of the Americans. He was flustered to talk with me about fucking my wife. He said she was an excellent lover, with an incredible technique, and she loved oral sex the most. He asked me if he could continue fucking her, and, of course, I said “yes”, he can take her whenever he wants, and he’s welcome to pass her around to other men. She loves to fuck and will be grateful to him. Surely, the other men will get to her also, the more the better.

They did. Eventually, the whole town will know what a whore she is, once again.

When the whore was with these other men, I’d re-watch the María porn videos, imagining the other men were PP, ravishing her, filling her body with their penises, forcing my penis farther and farther away from her. I begin to masturbate with the videos even when the whore was available to me, preferring the fantasy in my head and the vagina of my hand to the real thing. Even when I hor-fucked her, PP’s images stuck in my mind, my own sensations were never as strong, as satisfying as when I watched PP fuck her. The whore, of course, sensed something was wrong, which only drove her onto the penises of other men. It was perfect.

One afternoon, I lay on the floor, squeezing my testicles against my bangle with one hand, pumping my penis furiously with the other. The María/PP video had finished, and I was in dopamine nirvana, ascending towards a head bursting ejaculation. I exploded, shooting semen as far as my mouth. After a few deep breaths, I opened my eyes to see the real María standing over me. She glared at me with opaque eyes, terrifying, then wheeled around and left the house. She didn’t come back for three days. When she returned, she simply said, “Don’t even think about asking me where I’ve been. All you need to know is I’ve fucked every man you know and a bunch you’ll never know. Now every man I know, and you’re the worst, fucks me like a nasty whore. I am a nasty whore – get used to it!”

She had exaggerated, I’m sure, but I had succeeded, María was a public whore again. She went around the town center with other men, kissing and fondling in open view. I never took her out – I didn’t want to be seen with her. Thankfully, Brett was far away.

This situation, hostility and hor-fucking, couldn’t possibly get any worse. But it did. María caught me masturbating again and stepped on my genitals as I ejaculated. That was just the trick I was missing. I tied my genitals into a taut ball and challenged María to do her best with her red heels. She did, not to destroy but to inflict maximum pain. It was heaven.

María lost all sense of cariño for me. She brought home as much semen as she could hunt, just for the explosions my mouth produced in her vulva. She rejected my penis except to step on it. We never kissed or caressed. Looking back in retrospect, we had fallen out-of-love, and were caught in a death spiral of destructive raw sex. This couldn’t go on without some sort of explosion.

The explosion would be when I left her.

I was ready to leave her. Rather, I would kick her out of the house – she’d have no place to go. I wanted to make sure she had hit bottom as a public whore first. I spied on her as she went with other men, in the bars and hotels. The men she frequented were clearly lower class than before. I was ready for my revenge, to throw her out. She would be the town gutter whore.

* * *

She turned me with a giggle. As I cleaned semen from her vulva, between gasps of pleasure, she giggled. Then she began to tell me about the sexual antics of the man whose semen I was consuming. The story was funny and disgusting, and I started giggling too, we both laughed. We forgot about sex for a moment while she told me several stories, provoking laughter and vicious sarcasm of those bumbling men.

We returned to hor-fucking, but something had changed. As the days passed, our hor-fucking softened, we began to talk more, if just to cut-up those other men. I guess it’s inevitable human nature that you develop affection for the people with whom you have frequent sex. Small cariños followed. She told me another story about forcing a man to bathe before letting him touch her. I suddenly thought, ‘That man, these men, could easily give her, give me, some serious sort of disease.’ I didn’t want that, not for me, not for her. I pulled my face from her vulva, slid up her body and deep-kissed her. I told her, “Please be careful, be careful with those men.” I wanted to tell her to use condoms, but then what would she need me for? She replied, “Yes, I’ll be careful for you.”

I still hated her, still wanted revenge, still wanted to break her into little pieces for what she had done with PP. I wanted to grind her into the gutter. I just didn’t want anything bad to happen to her. We lay there embraced, then kissing as if we hadn’t kissed for months. We hadn’t.

The next day, the whore, my whore, my slut-wife, my wife, my woman, my María, María, went out to meet another man. I could hardly move from the couch, flipping channels, thoughts and emotions swirling around, nothing made sense. I needed to get away, get some time away from her.

The next day, in a moment of insanity, I caught her at the door. I offered her my arm, and in my best faux aristocrat voice, said, “Pardon me, Madame, but would you do me the honor of accompanying me for a stroll this evening?”

“But of course, Monsieur.”

She took my arm and we set off. After walking a few blocks into the center, I asked, “You probably have a rendezvous somewhere, may I drop you off there.”

“We’re already there.”

She pulled me towards a cafe, I pulled back, I didn’t want to see her date. She clamped down on my arm and pulled me inside, “Come on, you’ll like him a lot.”

The cafe was nearly full, and she pulled me to sit at a table. She said, “Look around discreetly, see if you can guess which man he is.”

I looked around, there were several single men, but only one older gentleman watched us and looked away when I made eye contact.

I said, “The one in the corduroy jacket that looks like a college professor?”

“No, I’ve fucked him before, but he’s not the one. Guess again.”

“I don’t want to do this. If you want to tell me, tell me, and I’ll go congratulate him.”

“My rendezvous tonight is with the most special, extraordinary man, my husband. Now, if you please, I’d like a capuccino.”

I wanted to ask her, ‘which husband?’, to force her to state directly to which man she was married. But then, I might not like the answer.

Instead I asked, “Are you serious, you don’t really have a date tonight?”

“No, not tonight, sometimes, but not most nights. I go out waiting for my husband to join me, but he never shows. It’s been lonely. Sometimes another man picks me up, I let him fuck me so I don’t feel so alone, but I’m always hoping my husband will show.”

I didn’t believe her, no way, and I said, “Everyone knows you’ve been fucking half the men in town, someone different every night. I’d like to believe you, but I know it’s not true.”

“I sometimes go to watch you in the café in San Fernando, reading and writing and flirting with the college girls. I envied them, you talked to them so easily, you could have fucked many of them, I don’t know why you didn’t…”

“You’re lying, they were just being nice, they’re not the least bit interested in fucking an old gringo.”

“You bought them coffee, they were hitting on you, you’re so oblivious. I hated them, you were so nice to them. I wanted them to be me. I wanted my husband to take me out for a coffee and pastry, then take me home and fuck me with cariño, but you never did.”

She stopped and looked at me, just looked, some strange longing on her face. I knew she was lying, she fucked other men, but I began to doubt, confused. I couldn’t think of anything to say, she was a lying, whore, gutter bitch.

The waitress brought our coffee, and I stuttered, “Uh, would you, uh, how about a pastry?”

She lit up like the sun rising, drenched me in the brilliance of her smile, and chattered happily, la música de mujeres. The lying whore is trying to seduce me again. She’s sticking her barbs into me again. Now she’ll want me to take her home and fuck her with cariño. Never!

Well, maybe just this one time…

Two days later, I took her out for an afternoon stroll, straight and proud, embraced. And then every afternoon afterward. Maybe love never dies, it just changes form like ice into water into vapor and back. She was sucking me in again, there’d be another round of ecstasy and betrayal. I needed to get away, maybe get some professional counseling.

Destiny kindly intervened to separate us, then bring us back together.

End of book content.

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